


Life's Too Short to Be Dancing with the Devil

by DiscoCritic



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Holding Hands, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, broken arm, ghoul really is dumb sometimes yknow, his arm went "crunch", jet can't find the goddamn painkillers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 16:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18720829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscoCritic/pseuds/DiscoCritic
Summary: Being the dumbass he is, Fun Ghoul tried to fly and broke his arm.





	Life's Too Short to Be Dancing with the Devil

“What the  _hell_ were you thinking?” Party Poison asks, somewhat angry, mostly concerned. Ghoul hears it in his voice. “Korse wasn’t gonna get us. He was the one driving. You can’t aim well and drive.“

“I don’t  _know_ ,” the Killjoy in question moans, grabbing his left arm with his right hand. He curls into a ball on the ground, dragging the words out through his clenched teeth. “Just get Kobra to hurry up with the painkillers,  _my god_.” It hurts more than anything he’s ever experienced, even worse than the time he got shot in the leg with real bullets when he was sixteen.

The Kobra Kid returns from the trunk with material for a splint and a roll of bandages, but he’s obviously lacking the bottle off-brand Tylenol that should be in there. Jet’s looking for something in the center console, rummaging around and probably taking his sweet time since it’s not his arm that’s fucking  _broken_. It feels like it’s on fire and it’s bent at a disgusting angle.

Jet practically ambles back toward them with a first-aid kit, not in a hurry at all. “Could you be a little quicker?” Ghoul yells. “My arm looks floppy and it  _hurts_ , man.”

“He’s walking normal human speed, dude. Quit wailing.” Party’s always been one for tough love.

“My fuckin’ arm is broken!”

“Yeah, I can see that, just stay still for a minute.” Jet Star makes Ghoul roll onto his back and inspects the limb, making _mm hmm_ and _huh_ noises while he goes. “Does this hurt?” He taps on it lightly, but to Ghoul it feels like he’s pounding it with a sledgehammer.

“Of course it fucking hurts!” he whines.

“Shh. Calm down.” Jet’s using that soothing, effective-on-wounded-patients voice now. Well, Ghoul’s got news for him: it’s not going to fucking work on him.

He stifles yells and curses as Jet gently sterilizes the skin around the break, wishing he was unconscious like the time he fell off the roof of Dr. D’s radio shack and broke his foot. It hurt like a motherfucker afterward, and he couldn’t walk for weeks, but at least he wasn’t awake for the actual returning of the bone to its proper place.

He thinks about everything—PowerPup, Better Living’s insect spies, the pattern on Kobra’s tank top—everything but the current state of his arm, which is not a very good one. 

Somehow, Ghoul’s hand has made it to Party’s, which is practically white from the way Ghoul’s squeezing it, but the redhead doesn’t pull away. 

When he finally opens his eyes, Jet is done and the arm is splinted. He’s taking fabric from an old t-shirt and fashioning it into a sling for him. Ghoul’s breathing is heavy and sweat is dripping down his face by the time he finishes.

“You made sure that hurt,” he grumbles weakly. He shuts his eyes.

“Nah,” Jet says, a hint of an amused smile twisting his lips. “That’s all on you. What kind of idiot jumps out of a moving car, unarmed, when there’s an exterminator right behind?”

“This one,” says Kobra. Ghoul flips him off with his eyes still closed.

“I thought I coulda, like, landed better and then knocked him out. Or something,” he mumbles.

“With what? Your mind powers or something?”

“Shuddup.”

Jet’s serious as he opens the medical kit and checks the bottles to see if they’ve misplaced the painkillers there. “Life’s too short to be dancin’ with the devil, Ghoul. Watch yourself. You could’ve broken other stuff. Or banged up your head. How many concussions have you gotten in the last year?”

There’s really no numbing pills or anything. Ghoul guesses he’ll just suffer.

“Four,” Party answers for him.

“Not m’ fault.”

“Yes, it was, you absolute dick. You’re too reckless with yourself. You gotta be careful, man,” Kobra says.

“I am careful.”

“Liar.”

“Then tell us how you decided each careful step of your plan,” Party interrupts. “Because all I saw was you standing up next to me and your raygun was dead, and then I blink and suddenly you’re flying out of the car with, like, a goddamn battle cry or something and then you landed on the asphalt nowhere near Korse and then that’s when I heard a crunch.”

“Maybe I misjudged my abilities,” Ghoul admits.

“Uh, think so?”

“What happened to him? Where’d he go after I tried to, uh, fly?” he asks, ignoring the rhetorical question.

“Kobra and I got rid of him,” answers Jet. “He drove away, but I think he was mostly confused at what you were doing.”

Kobra smirks and nods toward Ghoul. “But hey. His idea kinda worked.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Party groans.

Jet makes a suggestion as he closes up the painkiller-less kit. “What if we make a promise to never jump out of a moving car? Any of us? Ever?“

“Good idea,” grins Kobra. “Ghoul, repeat after me.  _I will not be an idiot_ —”

“Okay, okay, shut up. I won’t jump out of the car to attack Korse or anyone else, even if I know I could get ‘em with one punch, because I  _might_ end up breaking my whole body. Happy?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Party squeezes Ghoul’s hand, and the latter can’t help but think that even though he’s lacking a functional arm, and even though he’s going to be in pain for a while, at least he has Party Poison to take care of him while he recovers.


End file.
